Jealously comes when one has insecurities about herself. I have very few and none that would cause me to be jealous of another woman. Years ago, I came home to a single woman sitting on my couch…a neighbor known to see more than a few headboards. My husband sat across from her on the chair. I know nothing happened, but that did not stop me from very forcefully showing the skank to the door and letting her know that if I ever caught wind of her near my home again when only my husband was home that I would show her the beatdown of her lifetime.

Some might think that was jealousy. I would say they are wrong. See, I own my husband, just as he owns me. We gave ourselves to each other freely nearly 22 years ago. That woman was trying to use what is mine and that is stealing and that is a sin and that is something I just won’t tolerate.

A few years after that, a family members girlfriend came to my house wearing a shirt where everyone could see her non-existent boobs. That meant we all had a nipple show. I forcefully showed her to the door as well and told her no skank clothes allowed.  I offered her a t-shirt to cover her nasty, but she had her feelings hurt. How dare I call her near nakedness in my own home. Am I mean? Am I jealous? Nope. I just have a level of standards that I will not waver on.

I am of the firm belief that God gave me the right to defend, even with violence, that in which he has blessed me with. I am of the firm belief that there are women out there that have no self-respect and surely no respect for the sanctity of marriage. I can spot them from a hundred yards away and smell the pure skankiness from two hundred yards beyond that. To them I say…

I will slap a skank.

Reblogged from www.KevenNewsome.com:

Anyhoo, I had a blast and was able to hug the necks of so many online friends. Of course, I’m holding Grace Bridges hostage at my house right now. That is another level of cool. How many people get to kidnap their publishers and force feed them Long John Silvers. Okay, force is not the right word since Grace kept grabbing for another piece and I thought about fighting her for the last fish. My hostess skills overruled my gluttony and Grace got the fish.

Now that I have told you a little about my experiences of fun, let me get to the point of this blog post. Because, even though I am usually smiling, there are certain things that really piss me off. I will not mention names because I do not know who wants what said. I will simply give my understanding of what happened and my opinion. Remember, this is 2nd and 3rd hand knowledge and should be taken as such. Even with that said, the problem is there and needs to be addressed by someone brave enough or stupid enough to do so.

Speculative fiction IS the Christian writing industry’s dirty, red-headed stepchild. I have suspected it for a long time but this weekend convinced me and it really does sadden my little book-nerd heart. In case anyone doesn’t know what speculative fiction is, it is all the weird and cool science fiction and fantasy. Think quantum physics, angels, demons, aliens, flux-capacitors, dragons, steam punk, Borg, wookie…the list is epic. It is what me and many of my friends write and we all write it with a Christian world view. To say we are strange would be an understatement and many do not understand how we can glorify God with our stories. I’m sorry for their misunderstanding, but I know we can.

Back to what has convinced me that some in the industry would rather cram us spec-fic writers in a closet under the stairs and feed us crackers without a glass of water…praying we will give up and go away. Certain people each year dress in character at the conference. It is always a highlight for me. It doesn’t matter if it is period dress, Amish, medieval, or what ever, it is just cool to see a few people brave enough to put on a costume and represent their genre. It makes everyone smile…usually. Until you start messing with preconceived notions of what is and is not acceptable.

For our part, Grace and I wore Star Trek uniforms. We found a new friend named Gary Wade that showed up dressed like Picard…which is way cool. We joined our table without incident. A few others were not so fortunate. They were denied entry into the banquet they paid to attend. The reason given? Something about ACFW not wanting their banquet to turn into a Star Trek convention.

Oopsie! I didn’t get the memo about everyone can dress up in bonnets but the nasty spec-fic freaks must stay normal.

If you are wondering, yes, I am pissed. Situations like this make me embarrassed to write for the Christian market. But then I remind myself that I am not writing for some snooty person that feels threatened by my weirdness or a small group that thinks by standing next to a person wearing a costume will make them spontaneously combust with embers from the pits of hell. I write for God and any reader that seeks Him in all things…especially the fun stuff.

To those mean people that spurned my friends and denied them access to the banquet they paid to attend, you should be ashamed of yourselves. What you did was akin to turning away a person from the doors of a church because he has a tattoo. You do NOT get to say who God loves. You do NOT get to say how God’s message will meet the masses. If YOU do not like spec-fic, don’t read it and don’t buy it. There is a market for it. Maybe if you stopped running off the talent with your hypocritical judgement and general rudeness, we’d get a piece of that. But we are NOT going away and we ARE strange.

Peace, love and God’s will.

This last week has been very bitter. The first child has left the roost, standing on his own grit and making his own way. That is not a bad thing, but it sure does hurt and it doesn’t taste good with the initial gulp. Perhaps it is an acquired taste…children leaving their mommas and daddies? Like the title says, this week has tasted like earwax and honey. Terrible combination, I know.

Kind of like a Bertie Botts  Every Flavor Bean. When would eating a booger flavored candy be considered magical treasure? Well, when Harry Potter is involved or as is my case, I get to see 18 years of dedication come to fruition. That would be the magical, sweet honey.

There are other bonuses also.  I must look at the bright side. There are seven less sets of clothes to wash each week .Twenty-one less meals to make.  Dozens of dishes that do not need washed. But what has surprised me the most is the whole experience has made me feel the need to move even closer to my husband. Is that normal? I don’t know, but I am always happy to be as close as skin to Quinton. He knows me better than any other and he has that look that he only shares with me that makes the world stop spinning for a heartbeat so I can catch my breath and taste the honey.

Peace, love and God’s will.

What took me a few years (not the brightest light in the room) to figure out was he was pretending when we were dating. That was NOT who he really was. He simply did those things to attract me. Goodness, men have a lot to live up to. So this led me to ask myself if I was in love with a lie. I was young when we married, so this wasn’t too much of a stretch to think this.

I pondered US for a long time.

For months I watched him very closely. When he was mad, happy, sad, tired, hungry…or any other way he could be. What I learned is I did love this grumpy man that rarely buys flowers, shiny gifts, or says things just to appease my shallowness. I found a man that said what he meant without fluff or frill. If I asked him if my butt looked big he just smiled, wise enough to know there is no right answer to that. If I cried, he wrapped me in strong arms and said nothing because he was smart enough to know I needed to cry it out, even though it nearly killed him to hear me cry. If I was mad, he walked away, knowing once it was said it couldn’t be taken back. I found a man that loved me so deeply he knew every emotion I had and knew exactly how to make it right or leave it alone.

That meant I had a man that had studied me and knew me better than I knew myself on most days, and I was ashamed that I had not given him as much attention. I had fallen for the lie…I was the lie. It took me the better part of ten years to realize he had been saying I love you… you are beautiful…I know you like my skin all along. I made it my goal to pay closer attention from that moment on. I can now translate the swoon of a manly-man.

<strong>Peace, love and God’s will.</strong>

[This was originally posted at another blog.]

Since then, I have come to know Grace as my publisher, one of my editors and a truly dear friend. She has agreed to share an excerpt from Faith Awakened with us. You can also catch a sample HERE if you are intrigued, which I hope you will be.

My review of Faith Awakened can be found HERE at Amazon.

Geeking Out

Out of curiosity I sat down on the dusty seat in front of the desk and felt my hand reach for the grimy mouse as if it was my second nature—as indeed it was once, in the days when such work was all I knew. The glow of the sunset was fading and the glimmer from the screen lit my face as I opened the program entitled “Survival System”. More out of curiosity than anything else, I called up the help file to look for a description of the program. What was it anyway? I had never expected to use a computer again, and I had enjoyed the work, as far as this was possible under conditions of slavery.

There appeared now on the screen what looked like a wiring diagram, and in the centre was an outline of the human body. It seemed to be laid out in a box, and various machines and wires were drawn in, attached to wrists, eyes, and other various parts of the body. Then I saw that the whole body was “dressed” in a fitting suit with tubes for air, nutrition and waste, and a concentration of gadgets around the head, especially covering eyes, ears, nose and mouth. I had seen similar survival suits used for patients in comas, but the headgear was unlike anything I had ever known.

Why provide stimulation for the senses—sight, sound, smell and taste—if the patient is unconscious? I moved the selector to the head area. The view zoomed in and I saw that various elements had labels like “Video Output” for the eyepiece and “Audio Signal” for the ears. One thick cable seemed to be wired into the head under a label reading “Data Input”. I drew in my breath. This was a prototype of the much-debated virtual reality systems that included hygienically isolated, reduced-temperature life support, but also allowed the subject to continue living in a constructed, conscious world where he could see and hear and smell and taste! Many people had scoffed at the idea and claimed no such thing was possible, hence the debates that rose from its rumours. I squinted up at the cables that wired the terminal into a network. What if it was true?

I’ve written before about how I nearly starved myself to death, or how I once took a bottle of pills because I just wanted to die. I’ve told you how early in my marriage my husband and I treated each other carelessly. We cheated. We lied. We sabotaged. We hated. And honestly, you can’t go through all of that and not have some resentment and bitterness. You have wounds that need tending or they will fester, your soul will darken and you allow more evil to invade. You invite it right in through the cracks of your shattered self.

This kind of broken can only be mended by God. Before God can fix what you broke, you must confess, take responsibility and ask forgiveness. Otherwise, how will you know what He did for you? How can you exercise your faith if you are unwilling to yield? How can you share the story so others may find hope in their brokenness?

I have done all of that and continue to, but I have yet to share the story of my greatest shame. I certainly don’t have to share my guilt with any of you. God knows what I have done better than I, but I feel now is the time to break myself open again for those that need a little hope. Because if God can work wonderful in me, He can with you also. No matter where you are in your darkness.

As I mentioned above, God has to get our attention. In late 1998 and early 1999, I was in the most shallow, most selfish and most evil time of my life. You would think the whole nearly dying thing would have straightened me right up, but that was only the beginning of God’s work.  There was so much repair needed to not only my body and soul, but my mind. It was jaded from years of twisted perceptions and lies. I really bought into that “me, me, me” scenario.  I loved my four children, but if I am honest, I hated them also. I remember thinking those words every time I looked in the mirror and saw the body they mutilated, the dark circles under my eyes, the stretch marks that meant I would never wear a two piece swimsuit again. I remember thinking those words and thinking they and my husband were the reasons I was so miserable. They were the reason I hated myself. They were to blame for all the ills that haunted me.

Now, do you see my shame? Dear, God, forgive me. Even now, I can’t think about this without feeling dirty and horrible. But I have vowed to tell the truth that most would never let pass over their lips so you can see how God works. How God has a plan for all situations. Let me now tell you how God took my shallow, selfish evil and made something beautiful and eternal.

Fall of 1999 brought news that took the wind out of my sails. I had survived that last year and really thought I had pulled myself together. The stick read +, even though I had insisted it would read -. I was pregnant. That should be joy, right? But for me, it was like a slap in my face and I just knew my husband would leave me because I became fat again.  I was 25 and my life was over…again. Never said I was the brightest light in the room.

For four months, a life grew inside of my body and cried myself to sleep each night while I screamed at God inside of my head.

How could YOU allow this to happen again? Don’t YOU know these children are the reason for my torment? Why are YOU punishing me again? I can’t take any more!

Then one night, between my raging, a voice sounded in my head. It wasn’t God’s voice. Although, I know He placed it there. It was my Granny’s.  It was something she said one day when I was a teen.

“How you look at your life and all that is in it, is exactly how it will be. If you look at it as a burden, it will be the heaviest thing you’ve ever carried. But if you look at it as a blessing, your life and all that is in it will be a blessing to you and every person you touch.”

And there it was.  The shame I felt at that moment was so great that I couldn’t breathe. Tears came again as the scales fell from my eyes and light poured into me. God had blessed me so immensely and all I could do was wallow in my hate. Peyton, for the first time I felt, kicked the inside of my stomach and a wave of more shame washed over me. This beautiful child already loved me, needed me, wanted me. The least I could do was do the same for him. He was a blessing and I had to see that or else what was the reason God allowed me to live?

A few moments later, Quinton rolled over in the bed, wrapped his arm over my belly and sighed. a little smile worked at his lips. The raging calmed to peace. This was the man I promised to live for, love for, fight for…It was time I realized God had plans for us. They were good plans.

In May of 2000, two weeks before Peyton was born, my husband caught on fire while working under the hood of a car. He was holding a cup of gasoline and the car backfired, sending just enough of a spark to ignite the fumes that wafted around Quinton. He was rushed to the hospital and then on to Parkland Burn Unit in Dallas. I prayed. He sustain burns to his arms, hands, head and neck. His wedding ring melted to his hand and had to be cut from his swelling finger. His hair looked like a smokey brill-o pad and ultimately had to be shaved. He should have died or at least sustained horrible scars. I prayed.

Cleaning his burns was a lesson in pain. I didn’t know a face could leak fluid like tears.  I didn’t know that the whole idea of him not being was worse than any pain I had ever felt. I didn’t know how much I loved him.

Two weeks later he stood in the delivery room while we welcomed our 5th child into the world. He held our son with bandaged hands. And I felt like the Grinch, who’s heart grew and grew and grew.

Quinton has three very small scars from his accident. Can’t even tell they are from burns.

I thank God for every part of my life…even the horrible parts. Especially the horrible parts. They have taught me to find contentment in all situations and have faith that God is working…in the shadows if need be…to wash us clean and bring us home.

Peace, love and God’s will.

I can’t tell you how many times I have heard…and if I must admit it…said that the person that criticizes telling is mistaken and that it is a style preference. Umm…no. It is a weakness in craft and skill. I can tolerate some, but when a story is like reading a journal, I close it. Fiction is sensory.

Wasted words…

Telling- The boy was heartbroken that his puppy was run over by a car and died.

See? I just told you how the boy felt and the reason he felt that way in 15 words. I didn’t leave any room for your interpretation or your experience. I bludgeoned you with what I want you to know and feel and closed off any chance at all for your imagination to become invested in the story.

Showing- The boy dropped to the road. He cried out as he lifted Fido’s limp body.

See? I used the exact same number of words, but I didn’t tell you what happened or how the boy felt. I showed you a glimpse of the scenery (road), a few actions (dropped, cried, lifted) and the trigger (Fido’s limp body) that caused the boys action. The rest I leave for you to decide, to feel, to hear. I allow your senses to pick up my clues. I trust you as a reader to understand.  And in doing that, I give you more.

Boring words…

Telling- He ran his finger over her cheek and told her he loved her.

Boring! What I just told you was a flat, almost meaningless bit of information.

Showing- His fingers whispered over her cheek and he mouthed the three words she needed.

Swoon! Yes, I used a few more words, but they are strong and engaged a sensory reaction in the reader. They invest you.

Wordy words…

Telling- Bill was tall with lean muscles that made him look like a cowboy. He moved like an athlete. Sandy admired him as he walked away to get their drinks.

Taking the long way and using this many words is a telltale sign that I do not know how to show you what I mean. It is an ineffective way to communicate and by the time you reach the end, you just don’t care anymore.

Showing-  Sandy stared at Bill’s rangy swagger as he went for drinks.

Remember, it is NOT about wordcount, but about making your words count. A writer’s goal is not just to tell a story, but to make you experience the story. We do not have the benefit of movies to engage our readers…unless you write cheesy vampire YA, that is. Choosing strong sensory words is key. Each word should serve a purpose and not be wasted.

Fast Cars

Hype: Most every young man dreams of having a super fast car. Why? I believe it is because they think women think it is sexy, and maybe some women do. I’ve just never met one. Then there is the factor of power. Seriously, have you ever seen a girl get excited about a 350 engine block or the rev of high RPMs? Yea, me neither. But many men hear the sweet purr and know that bad boy is going to leave a little rubber on the asphalt when they gun it. They know that the 0-60 in a blink is a sign of their studliness.

But isn’t it the car that went fast and not the man? Why, yes. Yes, it is. The man gets speed points by proxy from controlling the beast and in some cases, maintaining and/or building the beast, <Insert Tim Allen grunt> and hundreds…no, thousands of women will want him to father their children.

Reality: Unless you are a professional racer, get a truck. At least then it can serve a functional purpose. If you get a super-bad-A sports car, you are going to get a lot of tickets and probably a few wrecks because you are still buying into the hype.

Fast Men and Women

There is only way I mean this and it is people that sleep with lots and lots of people. The mind-twist that gets people to buy into this behavior is always self-serving but never serves self well. I will divide this by gender. Not because I am sexist, but because we are different. If you can’t deal with that, I will write another blog post about the delusion society has placed on roles of men and women. You won’t like it but I don’t care.

Men- Society has always been easier on fast men. The hype is legion and the excuses are more.Here are a few of each.

Hype: Women love a man that has been with many women because that means he will know what he’s doing in bed. If I can sleep with many women, I am a stud…a god among men…a sexual fantasy for all women I choose to grace with my body…gag-hurl.

Excuses: He has “needs”, he’s sowing his wild oats, he will grow out of it and settle down, men are more physical than women and therefore need sex more….blah, blah, blah.

Reality: **News alert**Men that sleep with a lot of women will not know what they are doing because every woman is different and to know her, you must study her. That takes years, bright one. Men that sleep with many women are going to have some jacked-up realities and confuse sex with love. No, they are not the same. If we were like most other living creatures and sex was for population multiplication, then yes, it would be okay. But we are NOT like other living creatures. We yearn for connection. Yes, that is men and women. The disease rate of being promiscuous alone should scare the crap out of men, but the fact that they are NOT man enough to commit to one woman shows weakness in character and that translate to being a man-whore. A man-whore is a weak man. Weak men are not sexy, no matter how ripped their abs are.

Women- Used to be, all women that slept with more than the man they married were labeled whores and outcasts. Not really fair, but life isn’t. Cry me a river. We have come a long way in this country in trying to equalize the women with the men. I don’t think women knew what they were asking.

Hype: Women that sleep with many men must be sexy and beautiful or men wouldn’t sleep with them. She is a goddess…a sign of success…power…equality…lie detector is blaring in my ears.

Excuses: She couldn’t help herself…it was love, she needed something to fill the void in her life, she really wanted to be a mother without the weight of a man leeching onto her. They are only good for a roll in the hay…selfish much?

Reality: Face it, you are a whore if you are sleeping with many men. Good news. It is fully curable. Fact is, most men have an ugly girl story and him sleeping with you does not mean you are any of the things listed above. It usually means you were convenient. Sorry, hun. Sex is also not power. Sex, by itself, puts you in the same class as the wild animals you see on NatGeo. Is that what you want? Really? Oh, and I know that you can have an abortion if your pill didn’t work, but that is murder. Do you really want to be a whore and a murderer? Have a little respect for yourself.

Fast Food

Food is energy if we break it down into its basic purpose. Our bodies need it to run as much as your car needs fuel. This is basic knowledge but somehow, our society has lost sight of that.

Hype: Busy day? No worries. We have just what you need, and all in less than five minutes through the drive-thru. Cheap enough for every day of the week. Fun for the whole family. We also have healthy choices for those conscious of their bodies.

Reality: You just put toxic waste into your engine 7 times this week. How do you think that is going to turn out? And even those “healthy” choices at the Micky-Ds are processed. I’m not saying never eat fast food, but you might want to think about learning how to cook…something that doesn’t come in a frozen box. The obesity rate in this country is through the roof. Think there might be a connection?

Fast Sex

You didn’t think I would skip this after doing fast men and women, did you? Because this falls in line with them, I will just skip to the reality. No reason to repeat myself.

Reality: Bunnies breed fast…with no pleasure…no connection…no fulfillment other than population multiplication. They have to have lots of babies because they are on the menu for many other creatures in the wild. Are you a creature in the wild? Do you want to be a bunny?

Slow down, people. Life is meant to be savored and cared for. Going fast will not bring you happiness, but it will bring you a whole lot of grief.

Peace, love and God’s will.

As I have mentioned before, I have a hard time focusing on more than five things out of the ordinary at a time. I am a creature of habit. Oh, I can do thirty but soon, very soon, I will start to have panic attacks and then I am no good for anyone or anything. So I must choose wisely the things I will and will not do.

For the last few months I have made goals for myself to try and keep things moving smoothly and I have failed miserably at most of them and lost heart for others. There are a few things that have been a success but I grow weary at the constant bombardment of stuff jumbling my mind and making thought of substance impossible. This, of course, brings me back to the original thought.

What is so daggum important that the evil one feels compelled to stop me from doing?

I have found that each and every time I have this sort of pressure in life it is always an attack to prevent me from doing something for God. That may or may not be a story. Only time will tell. I just pray I am heading on the right path and God gives me a few nudges in the direction He wants me to go. I know He has good plans for me. I know I have a future with Him.

What about you, dear reader? Do you feel it when you are being attacked by super natural forces? Do you know when angels are fighting for you?